


Ugly Duckling

by Silent_So_Long



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Snow and Ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silent_So_Long/pseuds/Silent_So_Long
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whereupon Dean has to explain the tale of the Ugly Duckling to Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ugly Duckling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_shebang’s [December Event 2011: Snow Angels.](http://spn-shebang.livejournal.com/3575.html)

Dean worked diligently upon clearing the snow and the ice from the windshield of his Impala, breath streaming from his mouth in thick white gusts of moisture. Curses followed on the heels of his breath as he struggled with his current task. The ice and the snow combined were a force to be reckoned with, stubbornly sticking against the glass and refusing to be budged even by the heftiest of scrapes from Dean’s window-scraper.

He heard the brief flutter of feathers against the air, before he felt the warmth of Castiel pressing alongside him, tan coat a faded contrast against Dean’s dark green jacket. Normally, Dean would protest the lack of personal space, yet the warmth baking from the angel’s body was a comforting relief from the relentless cold that surrounded him. Castiel had always seemed at a higher temperature than most other beings, as though his Grace burned brightly even when it couldn’t be seen, tightly housed within the confines of Jimmy Novak‘s body.

“Cas,” Dean acknowledged, with a brief nod at the angel beside him.

He continued to struggle ever on against the snow and the ice sticking against the Impala‘s windshield, cursing still despite now making some kind of headway with the scraping.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied, watching with fascinated eyes at Dean’s struggles.

He turned his gaze upon Dean himself, and watched as the snow settled in fat white flakes against Dean’s head. The snow had already melted against Dean’s scalp, turning the fine strands of his hair sodden and clumped against his head. Dean, Castiel noticed, was even shivering slightly, hands chapped and slightly blue from the cold.

The angel folded out his wings with a ripple of feathers cutting through the air, angling the closest one to Dean over the hunter’s head. The tips of the feathers curled against Dean’s side, keeping him warm and shielding him from the snow. Dean turned a surprised smirk upon Castiel at that, angling his eyes upward. He wasn’t surprised when he found that he couldn’t see Castiel’s wings, merely feel them against him, feel them shielding him from the elements. He saw the faint marks of the snowflakes hitting against the feathers, limning them and turning them momentarily visible for brief instants of sparkling Grace illumined. Dean was transfixed for a moment, surprised at how beautiful that simple sight was.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, when Dean continued to stare.

“Thanks, Cas,” was all Dean said in return.

Castiel watched him for a time, silent, almost judgemental, and caught the vaguely irritated look that Dean sent him.

“What?” Dean asked, a little embarrassed by Castiel’s scrutiny.

“You can say when you think something is beautiful, Dean,” Castiel said, quietly. “I will not judge you. I can’t judge you. I never could.”

“I know,” Dean said, gruffly, as he turned back to attack the ice on his windshield with gusto. “But it's Sam’s job to come out with the girly crap, not me.”

“Sam is not here. He would not hear you; only I would. It wouldn’t harm you to be honest, if that‘s what you‘re feeling,” Castiel replied, gently.

Dean remained silent for so long, that it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything at all.

“My wings are beautiful to you,” Castiel prompted gently.

“Yeah,” Dean said, quietly, finally.

“Thank you,” Castiel responded. “My wings are considered quite ugly amongst the other angels.”

Dean scoffed at that, setting aside the scraper to stare at Castiel openly. The angel felt something he assumed was gratitude, even relief when Dean did not step away from the shelter of his wings.

“Now, I find that hard to believe,” Dean said, some of the scorn evident in his expression leaking into his tone.

“I was once one of the lowliest angels. My wings did not shine like the archangels do, and so, to the others, my wings are considered plain and ugly,” Castiel explained and his words were frank, unassuming, as though he hadn’t minded being looked down upon.

“Freaking feathered douchebags,” Dean muttered, partially turning away.

“They do have their moments, yes,” Castiel agreed, quietly. “They no longer hold those assumptions however.”

Dean turned a wry smirk upon the angel beside him, knowing that Castiel’s ascension through the ranks of the Holy Host had given him more than just the rush of expected power. It had given him acceptance of a sort, respect to a certain extent.

“Kinda like the ugly duckling, right?” Dean asked.

“I am no duckling, Dean,” Castiel immediately replied.

Dean sighed, breath huffing out in great gouts of steam, rising to illuminate Castiel’s halo for the briefest of moments. Dean stared, surprised that the angel’s halo was even visible for that short a time. Castiel almost smiled, when he caught Dean staring, yet he didn’t say anything.

“It’s a kid’s story, Cas,” Dean explained, still staring at the spot above the angel’s head as though expecting to see the brief shimmer of a halo again. “You see, this duckling, he was considered so ugly by the other ducklings, he was shunned. It turned out that he wasn’t a duck at all. He grew up to be a swan. A really beautiful swan. Like I said, it’s a kid‘s story.”

“I think that story has great value. It teaches children not to pass judgement upon things too quickly. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all,” Castiel said, gravely. “Thank you for comparing me to the swan, Dean.”

Dean merely grunted in response and looked away from Castiel again. The angel did not take offence at this; he realized that he’d quite likely embarrassed Dean. He continued to watch the hunter return back to his work, scraping at the windshield with more force than necessary. The silence dragged on for so long, that the angel almost missed what Dean had to say.

“I don’t know too many angels, Cas, but the ones I’ve seen? They’re the ugly ones,” he murmured. “Not you, dude. “

“Thank you,” Castiel said, simply, tightening his hold against Dean’s side with his wing gently.

Dean’s smirk was visible, even from such an odd angle, as though the hunter knew that Castiel was giving him his version of a hug. Dean nodded his gratitude at Castiel then, but didn’t say anything. Instead, his scraper slipped, almost gouging a wound into the meat of his palm.

“Goddamnit!” Dean cursed, dripping the scraper to the floor.

Castiel reached instinctively for the other man’s hand, checking him over for wounds, before turning his attention to the Impala when he found there were none to be found or healed. He watched the snow still falling upon the car’s shining bodywork and windows, frown marring the smooth perfection of his forehead. His lips pursed slightly in concentration, before he laid one splayed, slender hand upon the windshield. He blinked, and the snow and the ice melted away from the Impala, as though it had never been. As Dean watched, the snow that still drifted down from the heavy clouds above struck the car, yet did not stick. Instead it melted immediately upon contact, and settled still upon every other surface surrounding them.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said immediately, a surprised grin creeping across his face.

Castiel merely tilted his head towards Dean in a nod of grateful acceptance, before he disappeared in cinnamon-scented whirls of wind and snowflakes. Dean stared at the spot where the angel had stood, and was still standing there when Sam ventured out of the motel room, hefting some of their bags awkwardly. His large feet plonked down carefully upon the snow, fearful of taking a tumble on black ice.

“Care to lend a hand, Dean?” Sam mumbled, on his way past.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, absently, as he turned towards their motel room.

“You did a good job with the Impala,” Sam said, in surprise, taking in for the first time the sparkling clean, and distinctly snow-free sleek lines of the car.

“Let’s just say I had some help from a little swan,” Dean threw over his shoulder, before plunging into the motel room.

Sam stared after his brother, a frown of confusion creasing his forehead as he did so. Eventually, he shrugged and began stuffing the bags he’d brought with him in the depths of the Impala’s trunk. Above them, Castiel watched over the Winchesters, smiling to himself over Dean’s final comment to his brother.

~~ the end ~~


End file.
